To Live Is To Die
by Kahva
Summary: A lot can happen to a man when hatred is allowed to fester in his soul. In time, the very thing that is killing him will become the only thing he lives for. Chapter 1 up.


_Disclaimer: I have no claim on anything of Disney's, Jerry Bruckheimer's, or Gore Verbinski's. I very, very, VERY tragically have no claim whatsoever on Orlando Bloom. I can only claim my own mind, such as it is, any characters I create, and my Will Turner muse, who is working overtime, giving me Pirates fic ideas. I am a state employee who once again this year, like other state employees, did not get a raise, even though the cost of living keeps spiraling upwards. In other words, please don't sue, I have no money. July 2003._

_Author's notes: This is going to be a dark fic, so consider yourself duly warned, mateys. I blame this one squarely on a muse who is in a strange mood this particular morning, and the fact that I've not eaten breakfast yet, and at the time of this writing, it's nearly noon. There's no telling how weird this will get once I've had something to eat and have taken my medication. Also, I'm not exactly a Metallica fan, I do like a couple of their songs, but that's about it. I found a song "To Live Is To Die" however, and to me it really fit my opening character, and some of what I've got in store for you guys, so that's where the title comes from. Please email me if you would like the lyrics. This isn't a fic for the kiddies, though I do not intend to get too gory or graphic. Because of some of the themes touched upon here, I will be rating this fic an 'R', to err on the side of caution. I don't do slash, so certain documented pirate behaviors will only be briefly hinted at or alluded to, not seen._

_Hey, it could be worse! At least I didn't call this "Oops! I Did It Again". Though my Will Turner muse IS using that particular apology right now, he says he really didn't mean to stir this one up. At least he's being industrious, as opposed to my other muses currently… Enjoy the ride, and please keep your arms and legs inside the ride until it comes to a full and complete stop. You can't get off until the chapter is over, so if you're going to leave, you'd best be doing it now._

_And don't be pettin' the cursed monkey, mates. He bites.  
_

TO LIVE IS TO DIE

BY

KAHVA

Chapter 1 : The Captain

_Five years after the lifting of the curse...  
_

There were no stars to be seen in the dark velvet sky on this warm, muggy night. Only a reluctant full moon dared to shine its light over the isolated Caribbean isle. It was only the happy chance of a break in the clouds that allowed the heavenly orb's light to even dare to try and caress the sandy shores. Waves gently broke upon the beach, as if trying to soothe the angry soul that had claimed the isle for his own private refuge, but not even the ocean dared to go so far as to touch his feet. The water chose to stop just inches short of his worn boots, seemingly fearful of touching this dark mortal, no matter how briefly.

That was how thickly the hate flowed from this man. His odium for decent life in general, and for a few good men in particular, had twisted him into something akin to a demon on Earth. He had never known his mother, that he could remember at least, and had lost his father to a fate worse than death. No moral woman truly desired him; in fact, nearly every woman he had ever met had been utterly terrified at the mere sight of him – unless they had been too drunk, or too desperate for gold coins to care. It did not matter to him though, what any of them thought. If he wanted the pleasures of the flesh, then he would take them, whenever he so desired. And taken them he had, on many occasions, from both man and woman, willing or no.

He much preferred it if they weren't willing. Fear was such a flavorful delicacy.

Yes, if there was anything that brought something that could be called happiness or joy to his dark soul, it was the wonderful, discordant melody of human agony. As fine wine was to the palate of those connoisseurs of the nectar of the gods, so were lovely, drawn out, hideous, tortured screams to his heart of cold stone. He prided himself to the point of vanity with just how long he could make people scream, especially men. Women, to his mind, tended to scream far too easily, and for not long enough of a time to slake his thirst. Women's screams for him were typically bland and without texture, sorely lacking in a fullness, a richness he voraciously craved. Men, however… Strong men. Virile men. Good, honestmen… Ah, to make a man _truly_ scream, a scream born from a total loss of control, a scream of pure desperation, a scream ripped out of a man's body that left that his spirit horribly mutilated, shredded, shattered far beyond repair… Those were the screams he lived for. To know that he could tear another human soul apart like that at will, without even having to put much effort into the matter, was quite intoxicating.

Some in the Caribbean lived for plunder, some lived for wanton pleasures. Some yearned for adventure, to make legends of themselves, or at the least, to gain some small measure of fame before old age settled them down. Some lived for duty, and had vowed to die fulfilling said duty. Most, however, only desired a better life, and that was what they lived for, that was what they celebrated, that was what they loved. None of these pursuits satisfied this man, however. They couldn't even come close. While one man might delight in a beautiful sunrise, a lover's smile, or the laughter of his children, these things only repulsed this malevolent soul. What did he truly love? What did he live for?

Pain.

Torture.

_Revenge_…

The man himself was not entirely displeasing to the eye. He stood tall and proud, black hair draped haphazardly over his shoulders in matted braids. Some of those braids bore various multicolored beads, which clicked together most every time he moved or turned his head. A faded red scarf was bound about his head, keeping the braids in a minor form of order. Two braids hung from his bearded chin, a bead at the end of each of them. His moustache was reasonably well trimmed, which was surprising in a sense, when compared to his mop of barely controlled hair. Dark brown eyes were surrounded by kohl, helping them to stand out from his tanned skin. His long brown coat was rumpled, dirty and age-worn, but his shirt was oddly well mended and clean. A weathered, three-cornered hat was tucked loosely under his arm. Scuffed boots, a battered baldric, and a scratched up pistol were odd companions to a gleaming sword, housed in a near pristine scabbard. A faded red and white striped sash tied about his waist by all rights should have been filthy, but instead was surprisingly clean, the ends only moderately frayed. Even his hands, tanned, strong, calloused from sea life, were oddly clean. There wasn't a trace of dirt underneath his fingernails, as one would expect from a man of his occupation. Many people were unsettled by the sight of such a man, and upon catching sight of him, they would run the other way, or hide in their homes or businesses until he had passed by. Good folk who knew of this cruel being would never let themselves be caught staring at him. It was rumored that some of the beads in his hair were actually painted pieces of bone, taken from the bodies of those foolish enough to stare at him without permission.

Other rumors claimed they were the decorated dried eyes of those poor souls.

Folks who didn't know of him, however, simply could not take their eyes off of him and his unique appearance. To those who were ignorant of just who was walking in their midst, they had to wonder: Could he be the ruthless Blackbeard they'd heard so much about, the one and only Edward Teach himself? "But wasn't that dreadful pirate killed at Ocracoke Inlet, by Robert Maynard several years ago?" they would ask each other. Word was that Maynard had tied Teach's head to his bowsprit, to show that the man was truly dead, so this man couldn't possibly be Blackbeard... Right? Perhaps was he one of the many other infamous pirates who terrorized the seas? Surely though, he couldn't be so awful as that scoundrel Blackbeard, or so those who didn't know any better thought. For all his apparent fierceness, he was quite charming to any ladies who dared look him in the eye. He had never been known to harm an innocent child. But none dared to challenge him, for the mix of dirty and clean, neat and disheveled, somehow christened him with an air of one not to be reckoned with.

Or perhaps it was the two pistols he carried in plain view in addition to his sword and dagger that truly gave him that air. Whatever the reason, most sensible folk gave him a wide berth. But for others, this man's being such a walking, living, breathing contradiction in terms only served to add to his overall mystique. They couldn't help themselves, and were drawn to him like moths to the flame.

It was those others that he either took on as crew, diversions… or victims.

The man stood silent, unmoving, staring out at the endless ocean before him. _Yes, yes, bring me that horizon… I've waited a long time for this moment. For five years I've waited for this, for all my efforts to bear fruit. All I've ever wanted, all I've ever needed, almost within my grasp… Bring me that horizon!_

"Sir?"

He had not heard this crewman of his come up behind him, which served to both interrupt the captain's thoughts, and annoy the man purely on principle. This was _his_ island, _his_ beach, and _no _one was allowed to disturb him unless it was a matter of dire emergency. He'd cracked a man's skull for less in the past. But to sneak up on him… That was simply _not_ acceptable behavior at all. A lesson would have to be taught later. Slowly, the older man turned around to face his youngest crewman. "Yes?" he asked quietly, his voice a near seductive purr.

The softness of his captain's voice nearly did the newly made pirate in. That voice commanded respect, demanded submission, and brooked no disobedience whatsoever. It was a voice that had seduced men and women alike one minute, and had ordered their deaths the next. The young pirate wasn't sure which fate his captain intended for him, and was afraid to find out. Screwing up his courage, he made his report. "Sir, your fort has been completed, everything inside has been set up according to your wishes."

The captain looked the sandy-haired young pirate up and down, slowly licking his lips. Once, this young man had been a randy noble, eager for adventure in the Caribbean. He had tired of his comfortable life, and fancied that he wished to live the grand romantic life of a pirate. The captain smiled at that memory. Once the lad had signed the articles of being a member of his crew a few months ago, he'd personally educated the former noble just how 'romantic' a pirate's life was not. "Show me, John," he smoothly commanded.

The captain silently followed his nervous crewman into the impressive fort. It was certainly not anywhere near as grand or large as a fort manned by His Majesty's forces, more constructed out of wood than stone, but it could be easily defended by as few as a dozen men. It was the inside of the fort that was the most impressive to the captain, if he said so himself – which he had quite often, while it was being built. There was a comfortable barracks for his men, and an impressive house for himself. On the outside, his house had all of the appearances of a small, but stately manor. Inside, however… the inside of the manor was his true masterpiece. Running his hands over a large wooden table in one of the manor's rooms, he smiled. "I am pleased, John."

The young pirate smiled, quite relieved that his captain seemed to be happy. "Thank you, sir. We've all worked very hard – "

The young man had once been known as Jonathan Cowell. He had stood to inherit a tidy fortune, and a title back in England. He had just celebrated his nineteenth birthday the week before with the crew, and later on, privately with his captain. Now, he would simply be just another bead in the captain's braids. He dragged the freshly skewered body behind him by the feet, quite pleased at the broad stroke of blood being left on the floor. "You paint so beautifully, John. Such a wonderful bright red you bleed… 'Tis truly a shame you had to sneak up behind me on the beach tonight." He took the warm corpse out into the courtyard, where four of his men immediately ran up to dispose of the body in their captain's preferred manner. The man pulled his cutlass out of the lad's chest, using John's coat to clean the blood off with before allowing the men to carry the dead boy away. "Yes, 'tis too bad you snuck up behind me tonight, John… Tonight was not the night to be so foolish. But," he sighed, watching as his latest companion was carried out of the fort's gate, "I suppose you forgot one very important thing." A sardonic smile crossed the captain's face, and he swaggered off to his ship where his crew, and soon a newly harvested human bone, would be awaiting him.

"_I'm Captain Jack Sparrow…_"


End file.
